


Under Control

by lexyhamilton (ohheichoumyheichou)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Dry Humping, Extremely Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Prison Sex, Sharing a Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 13:44:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8251232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohheichoumyheichou/pseuds/lexyhamilton
Summary: AU of season 1 where the cellmate assigned to Michael Scofield is not Fernando Sucre but Theodore Bagwell.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's been done at least several times in this fandom, but this is my take. The challenge here was to make them have sex while keeping Scofield in character. Don't know if I succeeded XD

Michael crawled out of the tunnel back into the cell, getting up to his feet and rubbing the dirt off his palms. It was near midnight, hours after lights out, but the moon was still providing plenty of illumination.

He jerked in spite of himself when he felt a familiar pair of warm hands clasp around his waist and a sharp angular chin settle on his shoulder, moving as the man behind him whispered into his ear.

"Come on, Pretty. You stay down in those tunnels too long." 

Michael ignored him and continued nudging the toilet all the way back into place, wincing at the loud scraping sound it made at the final movement. It was so quiet at night, and sounds carried and echoed across all the metal in the bars and catwalks of Cellblock B.

T-Bag paused, then-- satisfied that the sound had not aroused suspicion-- continued whispering. "The guard made his rounds and I had to make the mattress squeak something violent so he wouldn't bother to try to look behind the sheet."

"Thanks for handling it," Michael said in monotone, shrugging the man's face off his shoulder and pulling his clasped hands apart.

"How goes the progress in there?" T-Bag asked, slightly louder, but still not enough for words to be made out in the cell next door.

"It's progressing," Michael answered tersely.

T-Bag grinned but without mirth in his eyes. "You sure prefer keeping people in the dark, Pretty."

"There's nothing to tell. I'm two grates away from a place I want to get to. I know how to get around them eventually." Michael sat on the edge of the bottom bunk and took off his shoes.

"Just hope you're not counting on absconding with your dear brother and the mob boss without taking me along, is all," T-Bag said, hands in his pockets as he leaned against the bunk bed while Michael got into his bottom bunk. Michael closed his eyes, feeling tired after all the scrambling around in the service tunnels of Fox River.

"Don't think you noticed, Pretty, but sheet's still up."

Michael sighed loudly. "Then take it down." He didn't expect T-Bag to follow his advice. He fully expected and soon felt T-Bag's body clambering in beside him on the bottom bunk—he didn't have to open his eyes for that. He felt his body get pushed from its position on his side to his stomach, T-Bag's hands snaking underneath his torso to come up and grip him firmly by the pecs.

"I'm giving you fifteen minutes and then I'm kicking you out," Michael said. "And don't touch my neck."

"So many instructions, Pretty." T-Bag laughed, Michael squirming away from feeling his breath right at his ear. "Take it your brother didn't appreciate seeing that bruise bloomin' up near your throat."

"If you can't follow instructions, you won't be coming on this escape," Michael tried to whisper calmly, but it came out as an angry hiss. It was hard enough convincing Lincoln everything was under control. He didn't need to spend more time explaining he was in no danger from his notorious cellmate.

T-Bag began to move, pumping his hips against Michael's. Michael arranged their living situation to be bearable for both of them. He wasn't going to walk around holding T-Bag's pocket in the yard, nor was he going to risk getting hurt by letting T-Bag do whatever he wanted with the sheet up. But some dryhumping through clothing before going to sleep? It was tolerable. T-Bag saw it as concession enough, and was cooperative.

Michael never tried to figure out if he was lucky or unlucky in getting T-Bag as his cellmate—maybe because there was no real element of luck about it. The young man who used to occupy the bottom bunk in this cell was inspired to take a jump off the second floor catwalk with a makeshift rope about his neck. Apparently T-Bag could make some inmates lose any sense of hope or reality. Brad Bellick also seemed to relish the idea of placing Michael in that particular cell, taking Michael's attempt to be polite and nondescript during the check-in process as a sign of cocky indifference that needed to be wiped out. It was all tolerable. Michael would never commit suicide. He wasn't even suffering, really, despite all of Bellick's designs. 

The thrusts were getting more violent, the mattress squeaking loudly at each push now. T-Bag was finally getting hard, hips trying to find a space to insert himself into, groaning if he managed to push himself between Michael's thighs. Michael had noticed it sometimes took T-Bag half an hour to get to the point. That was an unacceptable amount of time for Michael to be wasting on keeping the peace with his cellmate, truth be told. Everyone else in Fox River might have had too much time on their hands, but Michael had a schedule to keep. And yet Michael wasn't about to do anything to spur him on, lying on the bed as inertly as possible. T-Bag was quicker this time only because he was dirty talking himself into a frenzy. 

"Oh, Pretty, yes, you just spread yourself out for me like a good kid, yes… You wanted it so badly from me all day, you poor thing... Pinin' for it allll day..." T-Bag's words were catching in his throat. He hardly used swearwords, oddly enough, but what he was saying was still obscene and twisted, and Michael preferred to block it out.

T-Bag had not been among the cluster of Fox River inmates Michael researched during his preparations, and why would he have been? He had no connections outside the prison, no money, nor any other tangible way to help Michael execute his plan. What T-Bag did have was a certain level of notoriety within the prison, as Michael learned even as he made his way to his cell for the first time, escorted by a C.O., hugging the bed linens he was carrying to his chest as he heard violent whooping in cells he walked past.

But T-Bag had looked nothing like what Michael expected—he wasn't as physically intimidating nor as repulsive as his litany of vile crimes would have suggested. He was serving a life sentence, with no tendency to snitch or suck up to the C.O.s, and it took only a couple of days before Michael was confident enough to divulge the escape plan to him and start unscrewing their toilet with the bolt from the bleachers.

Lincoln didn't believe him. He gripped the chain-link fence separating him and Michael, demanding that his younger brother transfer himself to a different cell on the first day that they saw each other in the yard.

"It's all under control, Linc," Michael told him calmly, and he believed it.

"He's going to get to you one of these days, Michael," Linc replied. "You don't know these people—he and his neo-nazi gang will eat you alive."

"They won't," was all Michael managed to retort. He didn't look at Lincoln, and instead kicked at the dew clinging to the grass under his feet. He didn't want to explain that the key with these inmates—with anyone selfish for that matter—was to give them what they wanted, on your own terms. Yes, T-Bag was vile, he was dangerous if handled improperly. Michael wasn't about to fall into those traps.

Michael gave T-Bag a good portion of what he wanted his very first night at Fox River. There was no use trying to get out of it, when they were to be cellmates for more than a month and Michael needed his absolute loyalty. T-Bag happened to love his looks, reiterating his praise multiple times. He was downright genteel in the way he courted Michael that evening, chatting him up for a while before laying a hand on his thigh in invitation. When Michael said he wasn't taking his pants off, T-Bag looked very irritated but opted not to argue. He humped him multiple times that night, barely sleeping in between, and not bothering to go upstairs to his own bunk at all. When he did attempt to pull the waistband of Michael's pants down, Michael had the discernment to whirl around and glare but not fight back physically yet. Glaring was better than clocking T-Bag, somehow. Fighting him only excited him into violence, and Michael guessed that T-Bag had at least one shiv stashed around their cell somewhere. No, the way to deal with T-Bag was to humor him, and respond to his requests for intimacy as far as could be done without harm. If T-Bag had originally planned to escalate their intimacy later, he also desperately wanted in on the escape as soon as he heard about it, and he was willing to give up certain privileges for it.

T-Bag's thrusts were getting erratic, pausing to mash his groin back and forth against Michael's ass. Suddenly there was a sharp pain in Michael's shoulder.

"Did I not tell you not to bite?"

"You didn't specify anythin' about your shoulders," T-Bag panted out, punctuating his sentence with a violent push of their bodies together into the mattress below. Suddenly the weight of T-Bag's body lifted off Michael. Was he finished? Michael was skeptical, having heard quite a repertoire of finishing groans and gasps but never silence.

He had his answer when T-Bag suddenly pulled him over onto his back. Michael tried to sit up, but T-Bag shoved him back down, then pulled his legs apart, insinuating himself in between Michael's thighs. This was new. Michael was sure he didn't like it.

T-Bag pushed the hem of his shirt up, but Michael pulled it down again.

"This tacky tattoo of yours… you're using it as some sort of reference aren't ya."

"You don't need to concern yourself with it," Michael said, putting on the sternest, most indifferent face he had.

"Am I gonna obscure something important if I hickey you up and down your torso?"

Michael was losing patience. "Your fifteen minutes might be up, you know. I need to sleep."

"I'll letcha get your beauty rest, don't worry," T-Bag said, hitching Michael's legs up so his calves came to rest on T-Bag's bony hipbones, before resuming his motions.

Michael barely suppressed a moan at the unexpected sensation of T-Bag's torso sliding across the front of his. T-Bag had never managed to elicit any excitement from him, but now that they were rubbing against each other directly, Michael felt his body respond immediately.

It evidently did not escape T-Bag's notice either and he grinned down, his eyes dark, pupils huge.

"Isn't this so much friendlier? Lord have mercy, but I feel like I'm going to succumb just seeing your face in this moonlight."

Michael couldn't return the sentiment. He wished he couldn't see who was bringing him closer to the brink with each thrust of their bodies against each other. He stared at this pedophile, this rapist, this inbred, uneducated white supremacist, at the pale column of his vulnerable neck which Michael was for some reason tempted to grab hold of and choke, the bony angular jaw, the dark patch of goatee, all moving back and forth above him. It was nothing Michael was attracted to, and yet here he was, staring at this as T-Bag's lower half rubbed against him, making him respond.

Michael barely turned his face away in time when T-Bag's mouth descended to his, landing on his cheek instead.

"I'm not kissing you," he said firmly, still facing the wall.

"Or else what, you won't let me in on the escape?" T-Bag grinned. "I can call the guards over and show them your lil entryway that you've made here anytime."

"They'll see it took days to dig. We'll both be put in the SHU for a while, and neither of us would be escaping. Didn't think you'd want that."

"You're being downright unreasonable, though, Pretty," T-Bag keened as Michael's legs squeezed around his waist. His whole body shook and he let out a long, uninhibited groan as Michael felt the front of T-Bag's pants and his own shirt get damp.

That groan was loud enough to elicit a "Shut the fuck up, Bagwell, Jesus fucking Christ, all night long..." from the cell to their left.

"It ain't fair… to tease… and get a man's hopes up…. nightly like this…" T-Bag panted as he rolled over to lie next to Michael on his back. There was barely room on the cot and Michael felt his arm and leg hover off the edge of the thin mattress as he inched away from his bedmate. "Gonna be… the death of me…"

Michael glanced at the sheet, still hanging up across the bars. He was tired and now he had to deal with his body. He'd rub himself off into the toilet if T-Bag would finally fall asleep now. He hoped he would. Michael found himself trying to use their cell toilet as little as possible—both because of the looming threat that its plumbing might fail from being moved back and forth, and because of the unnerving way T-Bag sometimes took the liberty of observing him use it from the upper bunk, chin nestled in his hands, smiling as if he was witnessing something adorable. Michael looked over back at his cellmate, half hoping he'd be asleep, just in time to see him pounce and manage to pull Michael's pants down a few inches.

"T-Bag!" Michael hissed, horrified when he didn't have enough time to react before the man swallowed down the entire erection he just liberated out of the drawstring pants and prison-issue linen boxers. "Fuck—" he tried to pull the man's head away by gripping at the annoying long fringe of hair at his forehead, but stopped as he felt teeth scrape his tender skin in a warning fashion. Michael's hands fell away and he surrendered, letting T-Bag suck down on him, cheeks hollow, throat jumping in effort. Michael refused to watch but was kept all too aware of who was performing the task by the periodic unmistakable scratch of T-Bag's goatee against his inner thigh.

His legs began trembling. Maybe it was because he hadn't taken care of himself in the couple of weeks since coming to Fox River. Maybe, he thought grudgingly, it was because the wet heat of T-Bag's mouth was gallingly pleasurable. Michael couldn't stay completely silent, and an embarrassing sniveling sound leaked out through the hand he preemptively clapped to his mouth.

T-Bag's face floated into his line of sight again, looking infuriatingly pleased with himself, even as he licked his lips.

"You're not gonna be the only one calling all the shots in this cell, Mr. Michael-angelo. If I want to kiss you, I'm gonna damn well kiss you."

Michael could feel himself go limp and wide eyed as T-Bag removed the hand he was still using to cover his mouth, and proceeded to kiss him deeply. Michael tried to shrink away but there was nowhere to go when he was pinned down to the bed.

"It's your taste, darling. Sorry if it's not to your liking," T-Bag said, grinning, wiping at his mouth before finally, thankfully, getting out of the bottom bunk and climbing the ladder to his own bed.

Michael pulled his underwear and pants back up and lay quiet, heart still threatening to beat its way out of his chest from… fear, probably. Anger maybe? Perhaps Lincoln was right after all. The situation was far from being under control.


End file.
